The Squid of Time & His MultiDimensional Trousers
by Gen the Mighty
Summary: A Discworld-based story featuring characters from other books, TV and comics. Chapter three: featuring the ever-resourceful Susan Death!
1. Time is a Giant Squid

This is planned to be a crossover story set in Terry Pratchett's Discworld and featuring Stargate SG-1, Batman and possibly also some Narnia characters. I know that sounds like I'm not sure where I'm going with this... But I am. Sort of.

None of these characters are mine, they are the property of Terry Pratchett, and MGM for the Stargate characters. Enjoy and please review!

**The Squid of Time and His Multi-Dimensional Trousers**

__

_Chapter One: Time is a Giant Squid_

It is a well documented fact that, in a world that floats through space on the back of a giant turtle, it is still possible to find physicists. And like physicists everywhere, they like to tinker with the very fabric of the universe.  
  
His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch, was of the opinion that the universe would probably much rather be left alone. He was also of the opinion that he had a long enough name for at least three people, and he still wasn't being paid enough for this kind of thing.  
  
The wizards of Unseen University were giving an informative lecture followed by a rather expansive lunch; as a lowly Watch Commander, Sam Vimes wouldn't even have heard about it, but His Grace the Duke of Ankh was expected to attend.  
  
Vimes fidgeted impatiently in his chair. He liked wizards. They stayed in the University and never did much besides laying on large meals, dozing in the Uncommon Room and trying to avoid the students. They never committed any crimes, which was fortunate because Vimes wasn't sure what shape he'd end up in if he ever tried to arrest one of them. But he didn't trust magic, and the less he heard about it the better, because hearing how the fabric of space-time was going to be untangled was making him uneasy.  
  
It was probably making the fabric of space-time a little uneasy too.  
  
Vimes sighed - and it must have been audible, because Lady Sybil turned and gave him a stern look.  
  
"Sorry, dear," he whispered. Sybil Vimes was a large, kindly woman capable of generating a vast aura of good-natured, 'buck up, you chaps' cheerfulness around her that was in constant conflict with the natural Sam Vimes cynicism.  
  
Recently, it seemed to be winning.  
  
"Try and pay attention," Sybil murmured. "It's really very interesting."  
  
"I'm sure it is," Vimes replied, unconvinced. "But there're more important things I could be doing."  
  
"The Watch can manage without you for an hour or so."  
  
"That wasn't what I meant."  
  
"Young Sam will be fine with the nanny," Sybil assured him. "Miss Beatrice is very experienced."  
  
"I know," Vimes sighed. "It's just that --"  
  
"I know, Sam," Sybil said firmly. "Now be quiet and listen."  
  
Kids! When they were other peoples', they were just squealing, irritating little brats; or incomprehensible and disobedient wretches. But when they were your own, suddenly they became... amazing. And it was hard to remain cynical when faced with a tiny, perfect replica of your own smile.  
  
Vimes wondered if this was what people meant by 'going soft'.  
  
Up on stage, the speaker was having trouble. This was because the speaker was Ponder Stibbons; a young man whose research projects and theories were incomprehensible to everyone except the Bursar, a man kept on a regular dose of dried frog pills in order to pass for only mildly insane. Ponder was naturally curious, permanently distracted and better suited to life inside some quiet, well-ordered laboratory than the somewhat robust social politics of the Unseen University. He was running into difficulty because the Archchancellor, Mustrum Ridcully, was sitting in the front row and trying, with little success, to understand him.  
  
"So what you're saying, Mr Stibbons, is that there're other worlds out there somewhere?" Ridcully asked.  
  
"Yes, Archchancellor," Ponder said. "In fact, there may be an infinite number --"  
  
"Makes sense, if you ask me," Ridcully went on, oblivious. "I mean, if I was a damn great world turtle, I'd want someone to talk to every now and then. Compare continental drift, weather patterns, that sort of thing. Stands to reason there'd have to be more than one."  
  
Ponder sighed. "No, Archchancellor," he said patiently. "I mean whole other universes, each one created by some chance variance."  
  
Ridcully frowned. "What's one of them, then?" he asked.  
  
"It just means that, every time there's a chance things could go differently, a separate universe is created in which they do go differently."  
  
"Ah, this is all that 'Trousers of Time' stuff you keep bangin' on about isn't it?" Ridcully demanded.  
  
Ponder grasped at this in relief.  
  
"Yes, Archchancellor," he said. "But, in fact, time isn't simply divided into just two 'legs' - there are, theoretically, an infinite number of these 'legs', each holding a different universe - some very similar to our own, but others wildly different. There might even be round worlds in some of them!"  
  
Ponder waited. Ridcully was clearly working up to something; and given the contents of that last sentence, the Archchancellor could come up with anything.  
  
"So what you're sayin' is, that time has lots o' these legs?" the Archchancellor hazarded, like a man not sure where the current train of reasoning is going but still unable to get off.  
  
"Er, yes," said Ponder, who was feeling much the same way.  
  
"Well, it must be a damn strange looking thing, is all I can say!" Ridcully said, indignantly.  
  
"Well, you see, it's not exactly --" Ponder began, in vain.  
  
"Squid," offered the Dean. "Squid have lots of legs. Could be one of them."  
  
"So what Mr Stibbons is saying is that the structure of the temporal universe is like to that of a giant squid?" Ridcully asked sceptically.  
  
"Uh, well, in a way... yes!" Ponder said, trying to leap to safety on the bandwagon of metaphor. "And each leg is, in fact, a different temporal universe."  
  
"But squid don't wear trousers," the Archchancellor objected.  
  
Ponder sighed. They'd been doing so well...  
  
"No, Archchancellor," he explained patiently. "But in fact, the whole idea of the 'Trousers of Time' is just an analogy. You could think of the Trousers of Time as a vast, multi-dimensional framework in which the different, uh, legs of the... squid of space-time exist."  
  
Ponder held his breath. There was no knowing what this would produce.  
  
"Multi-dimensional, eh?" wondered Ridcully.  
  
"Er, yes."  
  
"Bet you could fit a lot in the pockets, then," said Ridcully, satisfied that he'd grasped the gist of things.  
  
"Quite so," Ponder went on, well aware that once Archchancellor Ridcully got hold of an idea it was best to let him play with it until he got bored and moved on to the next one. "Now, this machine --"  
  
"Room for all them chance variances, I reckon," Ridcully carried on cheerfully.  
  
"Uh, yes," agreed Ponder, who was not about to start a conversation about the pockets on the Trousers of Time. "And so, with the help of HEX, we've built this - uh - experiment to try and prove that these alternative universes exist. You see, this device is capable of generating a distortion in the space-time reference frame --"  
  
"Like a wrinkle in the trousers," supplied the Dean cheerfully.  
  
"Er, yes, thank you Dean; although, it's more like a worn patch --"  
  
"Round the knees, then," the Dean continued helpfully. "They're terrible, knees: always the first place to go."  
  
"Of course; and these - uh - worn patches --"  
  
"Around the knees."  
  
"-- around the knees will, eventually, lead to holes developing in the fabric of space-time, allowing certain small objects to pass through."  
  
Ridcully thought about this. "So, what you're sayin' is..."  
  
"What I'm saying is that things from another universe will be able to cross into our own," said Ponder quickly, before the Archchancellor could get too caught up in the fabric of the space-time trousers.  
  
"What, here?" asked the Dean, looking decidedly nervous.  
  
"Um... To be honest, we're not sure where," Ponder admitted. "These openings will occur at random," he explained hurriedly, catching Ridcully's expression. "We're using HEX to log when and where they appear but I'm afraid there's no way of knowing in advance. Although HEX has calculated that they'll only appear within a limited radius of the apparatus."  
  
"Uh, what kind of things are we talking about here?" asked the Dean, who clearly had something on his mind.  
  
"Oh, only very small, inanimate objects," Ponder assured him. "There's absolutely nothing to worry about in that regard. And now, Archchancellor, if you're ready, I'll, uh, activate the experiment. It will take it a little while to get going."  
  
He pulled a small, ornate lever and beamed at his audience.  
  
"A word, if I may, Mr Stibbons," said Ridcully after a moment.  
  
"Yes, Archchancellor?" said Ponder, innocently.  
  
"How long has that thing been running already?"  
  
Ponder shifted guiltily. "A few minutes?" he said hopefully.  
  
"I distinctly heard it ping, Mr Stibbons," Ridcully accused. "Not to mention the little sparks that kept coming out of it whilst you were entertainin' us with your trouser stories. How long has it really been on?"  
  
Ponder shuffled his feet. "Most of the morning, Archchancellor," he admitted.  
  
Ridcully clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "Good job no inanimate variances have come out of it, then," he said. "Now, let's see about that lunch." 

* * *

"Carter?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"What is that?"  
  
"I have no idea, sir."  
  
"Daniel?"  
  
"I don't know. It looks like some sort of... alteration in space."  
  
"Alteration in space?"  
  
"Well, whatever's on that side is obviously completely different to what's on this side. Possibly it's a doorway of some kind."  
  
"Into where?"  
  
"I have never seen any place like that, O'Neill."  
  
"It, uh, looks a little like Medieval England."  
  
"Uh, sir - do you think we should really be touching it?"  
  
"Well, how else are we gonna find out what it is?"  
  
"We should proceed with caution, O'Neill."  
  
"Ah, come on, T - where's your sense of adventure? Come on, let's go, campers..." 

* * *

... and that's all for now! Work on the next chapter has started so it shouldn't be too long! If you liked, please review; any suggestions or advice also appreciated. Thanks for reading, luv Gen xx


	2. Unexpected Guests

== Chapter two ready for reading :) SG-1 arrive in Ankh-Morpork, and receive a typical welcome... Enjoy and please review!!

**The Squid of Time and His Multi-Dimensional Trousers**  
  
_Chapter Two: Unexpected Guests_

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Sam Vimes made his way back to the Watch House in Pseudopolis Yard, proceeding gently. He would attend an Unseen University lecture if that was his duty as a fine upstanding citizen, but nothing short of bodily paralysis would keep him around afterwards for the dinner.  
  
Hah! Only a few years ago he'd have given his right arm for a meal at Unseen University. Or his right leg, possibly; he'd prefer to keep both his arms to shovel down all the food he could eat and then hide as much as possible for later. _Fine cuisine_ had meant bacon without burnt black bits and coffee that didn't actually cling to the spoon. But now... Now he was aristocracy. _Lord_ Vimes. A cynical, badly-dressed copper who got the best seat at state occasions and was sent as a diplomat to distant countries. Hah! Dress uniform and real leather boots...  
  
And his son would grow up in a house with more than two rooms and a bed he didn't have to share with three siblings and real food and warm clothes and he would never, _ever _have to worry about where the next meal was coming from or when the bailiffs were going to turn up at the door. When he thought about it like that, it seemed like maybe, just maybe, it was worth it.  
  
Whenever he saw his son, he _knew_ that it was.  
  
He crossed the Yard and entered the Watch House, and behind him the hubbub of traffic and dogs and people closed over the sounds of another arrival.  
  
Colonel Jack O'Neill, US Air Force, gazed around him at the alleyway, the river, the Opera House and the Yard, taking in everything from gargoyles and gables to passing dwarves and street traders.  
  
"Neat!" he said.  
  
"It definitely looks Medieval," Daniel offered. Daniel Jackson was an archaeologist and an expert on ancient languages. It sometimes worried O'Neill that nearly everyone he knew well was some kind of geek.  
  
Major Samantha Carter was also something of a geek, but in her case O'Neill was prepared to forgive a lot of things.  
  
"Uh, sir, I think you should see this," she said.  
  
He turned and looked behind him. The strange almost-illusion that had brought them there was fading and shrinking rapidly.  
  
It looked like a patch of a completely different landscape superimposed over the world, slightly gauzy and unreal and torn around the edges. Except now it didn't. Now it looked like it wasn't there.  
  
O'Neill waved his arm a few times. A magical doorway back home failed to materialise.  
  
"Dang," he said.  
  
"I do not believe it is possible for us to return to the planet by this means, O'Neill," said Teal'c. Teal'c was an alien, although these days it didn't show as much as it used to.  
  
"Yep, T, I think you're right," O'Neill agreed. "Ok, folks, let's move --"  
  
He thought he heard, in the darkness of the alley behind him, a muffled gasp, immediately cut off. He turned, and caught the image in the instant before he moved; of the man, knife poised, his other arm around Carter's throat.  
  
Every world has its fair share of dangerously psychotic idiots, and most of them hang around in alleys with knives.

* * *

All policemen develop an unerring ability to distinguish, above the noise of the busiest crowd, those faint sounds that mean that some one, somewhere, has either committed a crime or fallen victim to one. If they are really good, they can even tell the difference. Sergeant Angua, on the other hand, could simply follow the smell of blood, because Angua was a werewolf.  
  
She was halfway across the Yard when she caught the scent of it, heady and sharp even above the all-pervading stench of the river. She cleared the horse trough at a dead run, skidded to a halt by the wall and then peered cautiously around the alley mouth.  
  
A young man, with the indefinable air of education about him - a tall, looming black man with a golden emblem on his forehead - and an older man with greying hair whose worn features and lean frame spelled 'Soldier' in large, easy-to-read letters. The younger man was on the ground, cradling a blonde woman who was steadily bleeding to death. One very-recently-ex man lay in a blood spattered heap in the dirt.  
  
It was only three days until full moon, and the wolf was getting restless. Angua forced it under control and turned the corner, trying to ignore the smell of blood.  
  
"What happened?" she demanded.  
  
The older man looked up at her. "That's far enough," he said, threateningly. "Who are you?"  
  
She halted. Something in his manner warned her to tread carefully. "I'm Sergeant Angua," she said calmly. "I'm with the Watch."  
  
The Soldier was still staring at her with open suspicion and mistrust, but the younger man looked up at her hopefully.  
  
"The Watch?" he questioned. She met his gaze. "Please, we need help," he went on. "Our team member's been injured."  
  
"Daniel!" the Soldier snapped.  
  
"Jack, she's a policewoman," the other man replied. "We're going to have to get help from somewhere or Sam's going to bleed to death."  
  
"The Watch House is just across the Yard," Angua supplied. "You'll be safe there."  
  
The older man still looked uncertain - and protective, she realised. She could smell the panic, carefully controlled. _He doesn't want to have to trust me_, Angua thought, but she could tell that he was caving. Even the toughest of soldiers has a weakness. Angua made an educated guess.  
  
"She doesn't have much time," she said, glancing at the woman still lying on the ground.  
  
The Soldier hesitated, but only for a second.  
  
"Alright - Teal'c, you take Carter; Daniel, go on ahead with Sergeant... Angua. I'll get your six. Let's go!"  
  
_Ah-hah_, Angua thought as she led the way out of the alley and across the square to the Watch House. So: Teal'c, Carter, Daniel and Jack. Everything about them was outlandish, from their clothes and bizarre accoutrements to the way they spoke and moved. She wasn't sure exactly what to do with them, but getting them off the streets and out of harms way would be a definite start.  
  
They clattered up the steps of the Watch House and across the busy room inside, Watchmen on and off duty scattering as they passed.  
  
"Reg!" Angua called. The zombie on desk duty looked up.  
  
"I need the keys to the cells. Is Igor down there?"  
  
Reg Shoe threw the bundle of keys across the room. "Yes. What's --?" he began.  
  
"There's a dead body in the alley across the Yard," Angua said, catching the keys without slowing down. "Bring it in. And don't try and talk to it!" she called back as she headed on down the steps. Reg liked to share with any recently dead bodies all the new possibilities open to them now that they had joined the happy ranks of the deceased. Vimes did not approve.  
  
"Igor!" Angua yelled on her way down into the cellar. She turned to the black man. "Bring her in here and leave her on the bed," she instructed. The man complied.  
  
"Now the rest of you go and sit in the cells for the time being."  
  
"What?" the Soldier demanded. Angua sighed. The smell of blood was making her temper fray.  
  
"They're quiet and comfortable and you won't be in anyone's way," she explained testily. "I won't lock the doors. Please? Just - sit in there until Igor's seen to your friend. Call it protective custody if it makes you feel better."  
  
When the strangers had been ushered, grumbling, into one of the cells, Angua made her way back to Igor's cellar, where strange, sub-aquatic potatoes skulled gently around their tanks and free-ranging noses bounced against the sides of their glass jars. Igor was working intently on the bleeding woman. Angua stopped in the doorway and tried not to think wolf thoughts.  
  
"Its not ath bad ath it looks," Igor said, without looking up. "The man mutht have stabbed her in the lower belly and then tried to drag the knife upwardth."  
  
"Tried?"  
  
"Thee wath wearing that," Igor said, indicating something now lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Angua picked it up. It was a sleeveless vest, reinforced inside with something solid. She rapped it with her knuckles. It was hard.  
  
"It stopped the knife?" she asked.  
  
"Probably thaved her life."  
  
Angua placed the vest on one of Igor's benches, next to a wire mesh cage containing a mutated lizard. The dead body had been laid out in a little alcove kept cool by blocks of ice.  
  
"What about this one?" Angua asked, trying not to get too close.  
  
Igor glanced over briefly. "He'th really mangled up," he said. "Thome kind of projectile, pothibly. I haven't really had a chance to look at him yet."  
  
"Well, he'll keep," Angua said, turning away. "It's not like he's going anywhere in a hurry. And now I think I'd better go and ask our guests how he got like that."

* * *

Another street; another dingy alley. I am used to alleyways, and dark backstreets that lead nowhere. I have seen plenty in my time. But this one has the taste of the unfamiliar about it.  
  
Nine days ago, I started to hear rumours. Something - or some one - had arrived in Gotham. Some one who could instil fear even in the hardened, cynical hearts of Gotham's most dangerous. The identity of this mysterious visitor has so far eluded me, but I have my suspicions, and I intend to find out if they are correct.  
  
Today, I was close. I had followed the trail to a penthouse in uptown Gotham, where I expected to find this guest, and discover why their business had brought them to my city.  
  
Instead, I found a doorway.  
  
I have served with the Justice League. The uncanny no longer disturbs me. The supernatural has ceased to be extraordinary. Even so, finding a portal that leads into another world was disquieting.  
  
As Dorothy would have it, I am no longer in Kansas.  
  
This is not Gotham, although it might share a common ancestor. It looks different, it feels different. There are different smells and movements in the air. But it has a sense of familiarity to it.  
  
These three thugs, for example, might be found on the corner of any Gotham street.  
  
This is not Gotham, but already it feels like a home away from home.  
  
It may be Bruce Wayne who wears the mask, but it is Batman who goes to work. It is time for the Dark Knight to make his presence known.

* * *

Next up: Back to school, and Susan the Gothic Governess is in charge!

== Disclaimer: Discworld characters and places the property of Terry Pratchett. Stargate SG-1 is owned by MGM. Batman is owned by DC Comics. Original story is copyright to Gen the Mighty, July 2004


	3. No Running With Scythes

Chapter three completed! Staring Miss Susan and her Gothic Schoolroom. Please read and review!

**The Squid of Time and His Multi-Dimensional Trousers**

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_Chapter Three: No Running With Scythes_

This was an ancient battleground, scared by many epic and heroic encounters. Here demons were faced, lives were changed, honour was challenged and defeat was merciless. Here, the very spirit of courage was to be found in every noble heart that ever dared to step from their allotted place, travel the worn aisles of slavery and attempt to sneak into the Stationary Cupboard without the teacher noticing.  
  
Miss Susan was better than most teachers at spotting offenders; but then, Miss Susan had more than a touch of the occult about her and could also walk through walls.  
  
The current focus of her attentions was a young girl named Emily. Emily's father was the kind of rich, doting man who would still be calling his daughter 'my little girl' when she was thirty-five. Emily's mother was very modern and progressive, and thought that the child should be allowed to learn through her own instincts, unfettered by the preconceptions of an outmoded society; she was, in short, the type of woman who would buy a stable and half a cartload of hay if her daughter decided to play at being a horse for three days. As a consequence of this, Emily herself was scruffy, spoiled, disobedient and wild.  
  
Parents evening was going to be _interesting._  
  
Emily was currently screaming for all she was worth, because in her small sphere of childhood experience, this was the best method she had found of getting what she wanted. But what had worked on various nannies, whose future employment depended on Emily's continued happiness, did _not_ work on Miss Susan.  
  
Emily continued to scream. Miss Susan simply watched her. It was her very privately held opinion that Emily would one day find gainful employment as some kind of criminal mastermind; she had given some consideration to referring her to the Assassin's Guild School in Ankh-Morpork, and had even gone so far as to draft a letter after she caught Emily trying to crucify the class gerbil.  
  
Emily paused, risked a glance at Miss Susan, and screamed even louder. Miss Susan merely sat there, eyes narrowed.  
  
It was only two weeks into the term, but the rest of the class had learned fast. Already Emily was in the centre of a rapidly expanding circle; small tousled heads peered out from around various items of classroom furniture.  
  
Emily stopped screaming, gave Miss Susan a look of pure hatred, and started to sob.  
  
They were carefully tuned, perfectly pitched sobs, designed to melt the heart of even the sternest and most uncaring of adults. Strictly authoritarian governesses had been reduced to mortifying guilt by the merest hint of them. Miss Susan was unimpressed. She sat back in her chair, arms folded, and waited.  
  
Emily quietened down, and frowned at Miss Susan. This was not how it was supposed to work. She tried a few whimpers, to no effect. Miss Susan was unmoved.  
  
Emily sniffed once and lapsed into silence. The rest of the class held its breath.  
  
And Miss Susan said, in the voice normally to be heard ushering the souls of the dead into the next world:  
  
"HAVE YOU QUITE FINISHED?"  
  
The shadows darkened, and a wind of eldritch whispered through the classroom.  
  
"'_es_," squeaked Emily, but Miss Susan barely heard it. The wind of eldritch had not been her doing.  
  
She blinked, and time stopped. Not too long ago, she would have snapped her fingers just for the effect of the thing.  
  
"Death of Rats?" she asked of the frozen classroom in general.  
  
There was a sparkle in the air, like dust motes in sunlight. "Lobsang?" she whispered.  
  
He appeared in front of her, drawn together out of the glittering air, and stumbled forward onto the edge of the desk.  
  
"Lobsang?" asked Susan with a frown. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Please, you have to help me," Lobsang said. He sounded as if he were forcing the words out through a barrier of distracting pain, which was more or less the case.  
  
"Lobsang, you can't just show up here and expect --" she began crossly.  
  
"Please, this really hurts."  
  
Susan rolled her eyes, all frowning face and stern manner, ready to deliver a reprimand and take control where everyone else was _obviously_ panicking, but when she caught Lobsang's gaze she faltered.  
  
"What do you mean?" she asked. "What hurts?"  
  
"I... don't know," he winced. "It's somewhere... in Ankh-Morpork, I think. They're doing something... You have to hurry..."  
  
"Who?" Susan demanded. "Doing what?"  
  
But Lobsang was already fading. "Please, Susan..." he whispered. She felt what might have been a hand on her face, no more substantial than a shimmer; and then the school bell went, and time returned.  
  
Miss Susan shook herself. Then she stood up and smiled at the class.  
  
"Alright, home time," she said, trying to keep her voice cheerful. "Everyone remember your book bags. Adam, give Toby back his coat, please. Emily?"  
  
"'_es_?" said Emily, still frozen in terror.  
  
"I don't want to see another tantrum like that in this classroom. Do you understand me?"  
  
"'_es_."  
  
"Good. Now go and get your things. Alright, everyone, don't push. Yasmine, let go of Deborah's hair. And everyone remember to look for something poisonous to bring in for the Toxicity display!"  
  
When the last of the stragglers had gone, Susan stood and stared around her empty classroom. There was marking to be done, and the gerbil needed feeding, and she'd been planning to teach the class about ancient tribal burial customs tomorrow. Her life was full of little things that needed doing.  
  
On the other hand, if the personification of Time told you to hurry, you probably shouldn't wait around.  
  
She wrote a short note to the headmistress, tidied the classroom, made sure the Stationary Cupboard was securely locked and gathered a few vital items into her bag. Then she sat down at her desk and concentrated.  
  
She could find anyone, anywhere on the Disc - although to get there she would need some help. But this wasn't a problem because really, when it came right down to it, she was only as human as she made herself, and as much Death's Granddaughter as she allowed herself to become.  
  
Susan opened up her hands, and Death's ominous, empty life-timer appeared in front of her. It usually sat on his desk in his office; it wouldn't take him long to notice that it was gone - and when he realised, he would know who had it and why.  
  
She didn't have long to wait. A few moments later the horse of Death appeared in the classroom and gave her a whinny of recognition.  
  
She was a little surprised that her Grandfather hadn't come in person, or at least in personification. Instead he'd sent Binky and --  
  
SQUEAK! said the Death of Rats impatiently, drumming his miniature scythe on Binky's harness.  
  
"He says hurry up, there's something weird going on," translated Quoth, Raven, professional Bird of the Occult and official sidekick and crony (only in it for the eyeballs).  
  
Ah, yes, thought Susan, as she mounted up. The gang's all here. And a moment later they were gone, leaving nothing but an empty classroom and four hoof-prints glowing red in the evening air.

* * *

Susan had always turned to Death for help because, much as she would hate to admit it, she didn't really have anywhere else to go. But having a Grandfather whose horse could go anywhere that existed, and even some places that didn't, _almost _made up for having a Grandfather who was the Ultimate Reality of mankind.  
  
Death was in his study, behind a desk that currently seemed to be housing more books and scrolls and assorted occult paraphernalia than it usually did. Susan crossed the room and placed Death's hourglass on the desk with a click. Death looked up.  
  
AH, SUSAN, he said. I THOUGHT IT MUST BE YOU. WHAT SEEMS TO BE THE PROBLEM?  
  
"You tell me," said Susan. "Death of Rats said something was happening. Is that why you sent Binky to fetch me?"  
  
ON THE CONTRARY, Death replied. IT IS NOTHING THAT I CANNOT DEAL WITH MYSELF. I WOULD NOT HAVE SENT FOR YOU IF YOU HAD NOT EXPRESSED SOME DESIRE TO BE NOTICED.  
  
"The hourglass?" Susan queried. 

INDEED, said Death. VERY RESOURCEFUL. WAS THERE A PARTICULAR REASON FOR IT? I SUPPOSE IT'S TOO MUCH TO HOPE THAT YOU JUST WANTED TO POP IN FOR A CHAT.

"Lobsang came to see me," Susan said, ignoring this. "He seemed... hurt. He wanted me to go to Ankh-Morpork."

AH, said Death. THINGS BECOME MORE CLEAR.

"They do?"  
  
YES. COME AND LOOK AT THIS.

Death crossed the study to the Mirror, Susan trailing behind.  
  
"Grandfather, what is going on?" Susan demanded.  
  
SOMEONE HAS DIED WHO SHOULD NOT HAVE DIED.  
  
Death waved a skeletal hand in front of the Mirror, and its clouded surface resolved itself into a sequence of images.  
  
THIS IS ANKH-MORPORK, Death explained. WATCH.

Susan saw four people in an alley, strangely dressed, and one mugger. Even as she watched, the mugger attacked one of the strangers, and then...  
  
BUT NOW LET US LOOK FURTHER BACK, Death said. PERHAPS THERE IS SOMETHING I HAVE MISSED.

The Mirror swirled again, and the images changed. Here was the same alleyway, now empty. But as she looked closer she saw something opening up in the air, something that sparkled and shimmered. A few seconds later, the four strangers stepped out of it, staring around them with the fatal curiosity of a tourist in Ankh-Morpork.  
  
AH-HAH, said Death.

"I don't understand," said Susan testily.  
  
LOOK AGAIN. AND THIS TIME, LOOK WITH THE EYES OF DEATH.

It was a family trait. Susan dismissed her lazy preconceptions, and let herself see what was really there.  
  
Through the eyes of Death, the strangers in the alley seemed unreal - no more substantial than gossamer and mist.  
  
"But why --?" she began.  
  
BECAUSE, said Death, THEY ARE NOT SUBJECT TO ME.

"I _still _don't understand," said Susan, beginning to be annoyed.  
  
COME, said Death. I WILL EXPLAIN ON THE WAY.

"Where are we going?" Susan asked, following her Grandfather towards the door. She could feel her hair unravelling and expanding around her head into its ground state of Vast Frizzy Cloud.  
  
TO ANKH-MORPORK, Death replied, TO SEE WHAT WE SHALL SEE.

* * *

"MR STIBBONS!!!"  
  
"Er, yes, Archchancellor?"  
  
"What the Devil is all these people doin' in here? This is supposed to be the Faculty Dining Hall. There's _women_ in here!"  
  
"Uh, well, it would seem that the experiment has proved a little _too_ successful..."  
  
"Ya call that successful? How's a chap supposed to have his second lunch, eh, I'd like to know?"  
  
"You said only inanimate objects! You said! I found a talking mouse in my closet! A talking mouse!"  
  
"Yes, but, Dean, he's _apologised_ for stabbing you with the sword."  
  
"It still hasn't stopped bleeding."  
  
"Well, Dean, you did try and hit him with the warming pan."  
  
"And so would you, if you found someone in your closet!"  
  
"Lucky for you it was only a little mouse, eh Dean? Otherwise you might really have got hurt."  
  
"Shut up, Mustrum."  
  
"It's alright, I'm sure Mr Stibbons has a plan in operation to sort all this out even as we speak. Haven't you, Mr Stibbons?"  
  
"Er..." 


End file.
